All Chapters of ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MR.BILLIONAIRE : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

River’s POVHe was already sitting when I arrived.A quiet corner table at a local bookstore café in Los Feliz. The kind of place with string lights inside, a smell like cinnamon and cedar, and books stacked unevenly on every windowsill.Daniel Holt didn’t look like anyone I had imagined. He wasn’t sharp like the O’Connor men. Not towering or cold like Andrew, not slick like Marcus. He wore jeans and a soft-looking navy sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hands were folded around a white ceramic mug.When I stepped through the door, he looked up immediately.And he smiled.The kind of smile people give when they don’t want anything from you. Just acknowledgment. Quiet welcome.“River,” he said, standing slowly.I nodded. “Daniel.”He didn’t reach for a handshake or a hug. He just motioned to the seat across from him.“Thanks for coming.”“I wasn’t sure I would.”He chuckled. “Honestly, neither was I.”Daniel’s POVThey looked like Rachel.It was in the eyes. That storm-c

Melinda’s POVThere’s a particular silence that comes after the storm.Not the silence of absence, like loss. Not the silence of fear, where every footstep might be danger. But the kind of quiet where your breath slows. Where your bones realize they can rest. Where your heart doesn’t need to brace anymore.I didn’t know that kind of silence until now.The book was out. The press had done its dance. River had spoken, the grave had been named, and Rachel had finally, finally been seen.No more battles.No more blood.No more ghosts clawing at the edges of my sleep.And that left me with something new.Something terrifying.Time.It started in small ways.I stopped sleeping with my phone on the pillow beside me.I took a walk without earbuds or purpose.I cooked slowly, just because I wanted to feel the rhythm of chopping, stirring, seasoning. Not because I needed to fill silence. Just because I could.James noticed it before I did.“You’ve stopped biting your nails,” he said one morning

River’s POV“I want to start a scholarship.”That’s what I told Melinda, one week after reading Rachel’s second letter. We were in the living room. Rain tapped against the windows. A record spun low in the background, something mellow with a cello.She looked up from her tea.“A scholarship?” she repeated.“For girls who’ve had to disappear,” I said. “Like her. For kids like me.”Melinda didn’t answer right away.Just stared, then nodded slowly.“Yes,” she said. “Yes. That’s exactly what she would’ve wanted.”Melinda’s POVThe idea wasn’t just beautiful.It was necessary.The world was full of girls like Rachel — girls who slipped through cracks because cracks were all they had to stand on.The Rachel Greene Literary Voice Award. That’s what River wanted to call it.Not for grades.Not for popularity.Not for perfect college essays.But for voices.Girls who had something to say. Even if they hadn’t said it yet.Girls whose silence wasn’t consent, but strategy. Survival. Fire still fl

Melinda’s POVThe gallery smelled like sawdust and citrus oil.Fresh paint. Fresh space.River and Eliza stood by their twin canvases, heads tilted just slightly as they made a final adjustment to the lighting.On one side: River’s piece — textured black and blue, layered with strips of burned journal pages, gold leaf, and three rusted keys.On the other: Eliza’s — a charcoal and red abstract, bold strokes exploding from a single center point, like a wound trying to bloom.In the middle: a plaque.Unwritten Inheritance: The Story We Didn’t Ask ForBy Eliza Cole and River GreeneThe press was already arriving.So were donors. Students. Professors. Survivors. Quiet girls in dark jeans and oversized headphones.Carrie floated between guests like a conductor. James poured drinks near the gallery café, smiling at everyone. Even Daniel showed up — back of the room, hands in his pockets, staying out of the spotlight.And River?They looked calm.Focused.Like this was exactly where they were

Melinda’s POVThe envelope sat in the center of the conference table like a ticking bomb.Carrie hadn’t opened it. Not yet.She wanted us all present.Me.River.Eliza.Daniel.James.No press.No cameras.Just the people who had bled for the truth already.The label on the front read only one word:“Buried.”Inside?A single flash drive.Carrie picked it up like it might burn her fingers.Then passed it to me.“Your call,” she said.River’s POVI nodded.I wasn’t scared.I was… ready.Not for closure.For what might come after the closure we thought we had.Because “buried” didn’t mean forgotten.It meant someone didn’t want it found.So we plugged the drive in.And pressed play.Video Transcript — Anonymous Woman (Taped 2012)“My name doesn’t matter. What matters is I worked for Holt Industries from 2009 to 2012. I was on the administrative team. Lower-level. Nothing powerful. But I saw things.”(pause)“There was a woman. Rachel Greene. I didn’t know her name then. She came in one